“Go on, sir.”
“Well, my Lady, they were just married about ten or twelve days when I met them; the ceremony had been performed in some little out-of-the-way spot in the Rhine country, where Mr. Beecher had been staying for the summer, and where, as it happened, he never received any tidings of the late Lord's death, or the presumption is, he had never made this unfortunate connection.”
“What do you mean by 'unfortunate connection '?”
“Why, one must really call it so, my Lady; the world, at least, will say as much.”
“Who is she, sir?”
“She's the daughter of one of the most notorious men in England, my Lady,—the celebrated leg, Grog Davis.”
Ah, Mr. Spicer, small and insignificant as you are, you have your sting, and her Ladyship has felt it. These words, slowly uttered in a tone of assumed sorrow, so overcame her they were addressed to, that she covered her face with her handkerchief and sat thus, speechless, for several minutes. To Spicer it was a moment of triumph,—it was a vengeance for all the insults, all the slights she showered upon him, and he only grieved to think how soon her proud spirit would rally from the shock.
Lady Lackington's face, as she withdrew her handkerchief, was of ashy paleness, and her bloodless lips trembled with emotion. “Have you heard what this man has said, Grace?” whispered she, in a voice so distinct as to be audible throughout the room.
“Yes, dearest; it is most distressing,” said the other, in the softest of accents.
“Distressing! It is an infamy!” cried she. Then suddenly turning to Spicer, with flaring eyes and flushed face, she said, “You have rather a talent for blundering, sir, and it is just as likely this is but a specimen of your powers. I am certain she is not his wife.”